


All That Life Can Afford

by rubyofkukundu



Series: Whirlwind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:46:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the mid-90s! After a one-night stand in Cambridge, John wants to see Sherlock again. Things don't quite go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Life Can Afford

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/3464489.html>

John waits until a reasonable time the next morning to phone Sherlock. Neither of John's flatmates are home, which is good, because it means that they can't see him in the hallway, nervously tapping the postcard on the edge of the telephone table while he waits for the call to connect.  
  
One ring.  
  
Two rings.  
  
Three.  
  
On the fourth, the call is cut off and John's left with the dialling tone in his ear. Biting his lip, he hangs up and looks at the postcard again. A picture of Cambridge, and on the other side, a phone number and the initials, SH, in a jagged scrawl.  
  
It must be from Sherlock Holmes. John doesn't know anyone else with those initials. Although how Sherlock found his address, John has no idea. And the thought of Sherlock taking the trouble to find out his address in order to stay in contact... Well, John gets a little giddy at the thought.  
  
He looks to the phone. There's probably a reason why Sherlock didn't pick up. Maybe he's not at home? With a sigh, John tries his hardest to forget about Sherlock for the time being and carry on with the rest of his day.  
  
One hour later finds John restlessly back at the phone, dialling the number on the postcard then squatting down against the wall while he waits for it to ring. He cradles the phone in his hands, nervous, even though there's no guarantee that Sherlock's going to answer it this time either.  
  
One ring.  
  
Two rings.  
  
The call connects, and there's that deep voice. "John Watson." The name is warm, rounded, and it's not hard to imagine Sherlock smiling on the other end of the line.  
  
John's breath catches in his throat. "You know it's me, then?"  
  
"Who else is it going to be?" replies Sherlock, flippantly. "I did send you my number."  
  
John smiles at that. "Yes," he says. "Yes you did."  
  
There's a moment of silence, broken only by a distant thunking noise.  
  
John licks his lips. May as well cut to the chase. "I wanted to see you again."  
  
Sherlock huffs. "That's not going to be easy," he says.  
  
John's stomach turns upside-down. "What? You mean..."  
  
"Unless you've failed to notice, we don't exactly live close to each other. You're in London and..." Sherlock pauses.  
  
"No," admits John, "but I was thinking that..."  
  
"Shh!" hisses Sherlock.  
  
"What?" John tries not to feel hurt. "Why are...?"  
  
"Shh! Shh!" repeats Sherlock. He falls silent and for a moment the line is full of nothing but the sound of his tense breathing.  
  
John doesn't know what to make of that. "Sherlock," he says, "if you..."  
  
"Oh hell, she's here," hisses Sherlock, and very abruptly, the line goes dead.  
  
It takes John a moment before he has the wherewithal to hang up the receiver. He stands staring down at the phone, and for all the world, he doesn't quite know what happened. Who was 'she'? And why didn't Sherlock want her to hear their conversation? Could she be his girlfriend, maybe? Another one night stand?  
  
Either way, it's certainly the strangest rejection that John's received in a long time.  
  
Rejection; John tries not to feel too disappointed about that, although there's something hollow gnawing at his chest anyway. It does beg the question why Sherlock sent him his phone number if he wasn't interested in seeing John again, but it's probably been a couple of days since Sherlock sent the postcard; that's enough time for anyone to change their mind.  
  
John leaves the postcard onto the telephone table and heads into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock might be a fascinating whirlwind of a person, but it's not like John's not been rejected by equally interesting people before. He can cope.  
  
Five minutes later, the phone rings.  
  
John picks it up and is very surprised to hear Sherlock's voice on the other end.  
  
Sherlock sounds decidedly breathless. "John," he almost gasps into the receiver. The connection is bad, but underneath the heavy breathing John can hear a jostling noise and something that almost sounds like running footsteps.  
  
John frowns down at the table. "Sherlock," he says, "are you running somewhere?"  
  
Sherlock huffs out a breathy laugh. "Good deduction."  
  
"You have a mobile phone," says John as the realisation dawns.  
  
"Of course I do." Sherlock swallows thickly. "I could hardly have answered your call in the Dean's office if I didn't."  
  
"You..." John listens to the frantic footsteps. "You were in the Dean's office?"  
  
"No time to explain," gasps Sherlock. "I'll call you back later," and he hangs up the phone.  
  
John experiences a very disjointed afternoon after that. He has no lectures or hospital shifts to go to so there's nothing to get him out of the flat and keep him busy. As a result, he spends almost every moment waiting for the phone to go again while superficially pretending to write an essay.  
  
It's a ridiculous state of affairs. John's not the sort of person to go mooning after anyone, but the previous two phone calls were just so strange that he's caught up in his own curiosity as much as anything. The whole thing rolls over and over in his head until John almost can't stand it any more.  
  
***  
  
It's not until the evening that the phone rings again. John's in the living room watching TV with his flatmates when it does.  
  
Trying to suppress the thrill that runs through him at the noise, John wanders out into the hall to answer it. "Hello?"  
  
"John," Sherlock sounds far less breathless than he had done before, "I apologise for cutting our conversation short earlier; I was a little busy."  
  
"Yeah." John sits down on the floor, his back against the wall. "Want to tell me what all that was about?"  
  
"Just a small investigation in the Dean's office. I had to make a quick escape." Sherlock sighs. "I won't bore you with the details."  
  
"Bore me?" John laughs. "Sherlock, you can't just leave it at that. I haven't been able to think of anything else all afternoon! There is no way it'll bore me."  
  
"You..." Sherlock pauses. "Seriously?"  
  
"Seriously," says John. "I want to know."  
  
Sherlock coughs. "Well," he says, "a girl in my college wanted me to help solve a problem with her boyfriend. He's been acting strangely and she thought he'd been ignoring her." He sighs. "You should know, John, that I wouldn't normally bother with anything as tedious as a lover's tiff, but this one was a bit more interesting than the usual. The boyfriend, you see, hasn't merely changed; he's made a complete 180 in terms of personality. Where before he was lazy, now he spends all his time in the library and no longer goes out with his friends. Before, he didn't really spend much on his appearance, but he's recently bought a whole new wardrobe, got a new haircut, and is suddenly spending money on a sunbed tan and expensive-brand toiletries..." Sherlock trails off, almost uncertain. "You did say you wanted to know," he says defensively.  
  
"I do. Really," replies John, more intrigued than ever. "Don't stop."  
  
Sherlock sniffs, then continues, "So, a complete personality change and a lot of money to throw around; why? The girl thought her boyfriend might have started stealing from somewhere as he's never had much money before. She was wrong, of course, I could tell that as soon as she'd outlined her problem. Only an idiot wouldn't spot what was really going on."  
  
"An... idiot..." John frowns. "It was really that obvious?"  
  
"Well, isn't it?" asks Sherlock.  
  
John doesn't know what to say to that. He weighs up the advantages of telling the truth or lying to sound clever.  
  
Sherlock huffs and explains himself anyway. "The boyfriend wasn't stealing things. He was having an affair. And an affair with someone rich at that. Most students don't have too much money, which suggested that this affair was with someone older. So, older woman; money to throw around; has a penchant for younger boys in expensive clothes with a Mediterranean complexion; and is able to meet the boyfriend in the college library. Obviously, he's having an affair with the Dean of the College."  
  
"Obviously," repeats John, feeling for all the world like this isn't very obvious at all.  
  
"This isn't the first time she's had an affair with one of the students," says Sherlock, as if that explains everything. "It's all quite run-of-the-mill and dull, but this girl had offered to reward me for my trouble so I agreed to look into it further. It wasn't hard; I snuck into the Dean's office this morning to find some evidence of the affair."  
  
"And... is that when I rang?" asks John in disbelief.  
  
"Exactly," says Sherlock, "but when we were on the phone, I heard the Dean approaching down the corridor and had to cut our conversation short to make my escape out of the window." He chuckles. "She didn't see me, but it was close; I had to run quite fast. God knows what would have happened if she had caught me; especially after what happened last time."  
  
"Last time?" wonders John out loud.  
  
Sherlock ignores him. "For the rest of the afternoon, I decided to take a different tack. It was much easier to have a search around the boyfriend's room instead, and I quickly found what I was looking for there. At the back of his desk drawer was a key; clearly the spare key to the Dean's office from the shape of it."  
  
"...Right," says John as he finds reality slipping further away from him.  
  
"Evidence gathered," continues Sherlock, "I went to break the news to my client. That part took a ridiculously long time though; she started crying at me as if her boyfriend's infidelity were my fault." He sniffs. "I was almost tempted to go without my fee, just so I could get away. Thankfully, she came around in the end, but that's the last time I'm taking on a case like this. These things always get far too messy."  
  
"Wait wait wait." John tries to stop the conversation before the world topples around him. "You mean, this isn't a one off? Taking cases? And clients? That's a thing you do?"  
  
"Easy way to earn some cash and keep myself occupied," says Sherlock. "In a nutshell: people come to me with problems and I solve them."  
  
"You..." John can't keep everything straight. "Regularly?"  
  
"Quite regularly," replies Sherlock.  
  
"Wow," says John. "So..." He coughs. "So, you act as a private detective then?"  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Well, that makes it sound a little crude, but basically, yes."  
  
John laughs at that. He can't help himself. "Are you even real?" he asks Sherlock. "Seriously, that's... That's fantastic. I've never... I didn't even realise that people did that sort of thing. It's actually amazing."  
  
The laughter infects Sherlock too. "You think so?" he chuckles. "Honestly, John, I'd watch out. If you go around being that enthusiastic, I'm going to want to keep you around."  
  
John grins. "I wouldn't mind that."  
  
Sherlock goes quiet on the other end of the phone. After a moment, he gives out a huff of breath and there's a smile in his voice when he says, "Our conversation got cut short earlier."  
  
"Yes," agrees John, taking the cue, "should we try and start from the beginning again? You sent me your number and I... Actually," John licks his lips, "how did you know my address? I don't think I gave it to you."  
  
"What?" asks Sherlock. "Oh, that. You'd be amazed at how much information people give out over the phone if you act the part. I rang your university."  
  
The world takes another lurch sideways. "You..." John stares at the wall. "You rang up my university and pretended to be me?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, John," says Sherlock. "I pretended to be your cousin. Wanted to send you an invitation to my 21st birthday party; didn't know your address, only the name of the university you went to; and I couldn't ask my parents because they've been arguing with your parents for years. It's important to me though; it's a big day and I want all my cousins to be there. Surprisingly easy, really; get emotional enough and people will tell you anything."  
  
"I..." John doesn't know whether to feel flattered or terrified about that. "You went to all that trouble just to stay in contact?"  
  
"If you're unhappy..." starts Sherlock.  
  
"No," says John. "No. It's... I still mean what I said earlier. I want to see you again. I do."  
  
Sherlock sighs. "I did say that would be difficult," he says. "Neither of us have much free time to visit each other..."  
  
"No," counters John, "but..."  
  
"...which is why I'd thought that we could make do with something more immediate," concludes Sherlock.  
  
John pauses. "What?"  
  
"Are you telling me, John," and the smile is definitely in Sherlock's voice this time, "that you've never considered phone sex before?"  
  
John's mind screeches to a halt. "What? Wait..." He flushes at the prospect of it. "You mean now?"  
  
Sherlock sighs. "There _is_ a reason that I've been naked for the entirety of this phone call," he says.  
  
"You're..." The memory of Sherlock's body flashes into John's mind without warning, strong and visceral in its freshness. Lithe, pale limbs. Long fingers. Masculine. "Jesus." John glances nervously into the living room. "My flatmates are here," he says cautiously.  
  
"And you're stuck in the hallway. I know." Sherlock hums, amused. "This is where having a mobile phone comes in handy, you know; it does wonders for privacy."  
  
"Sherlock," protests John, "I can't..."  
  
"Well then," Sherlock huffs happily. "It looks like I'm going to have to do all the work." His voice drops lower, curling around the words. "And you're going to have to listen."  
  
"Oh God." John's already growing hard, just from the thought of it. His heart thrums in his chest. Awkwardly, he shifts so that his back is to the living room, drawing up his knees and huddling in on himself. He knows he should really hang up so they can do this at a time when he's alone, but...  
  
"I've been touching myself for a while now," purrs Sherlock. "Did you realise?"  
  
John swallows thickly, his mind racing off without him. "No."  
  
Sherlock gives a lazy chuckle. "How's your imagination, John? Good? Can you see what I'm doing? I was just palming myself but now..." He sighs. "You're hard, aren't you, John? Thick as anything. I can tell from the way you're breathing. You want to touch yourself so badly; pretend it's me doing it to you."  
  
John has to clutch at the receiver with both hands to stop his fingers from trembling.  
  
"I can still remember the look of you, John. The smell of you. You felt good in my palm." Sherlock exhales deeply. "And the way you licked your lips when you touched my cock for the first time." Sherlock swallows, voice breathy. "God, John, I'm so hard right now. I'm dripping onto my stomach."  
  
John whimpers and claps a hand over his mouth. His jeans press against his erection, the friction too light to be of any real use.  
  
"Mmmm." Sherlock's voice darkens further. "You're going to have fun when this call's over, aren't you? How do you like to touch yourself? Fast? Slow? Sometimes I take so long that I'm aching by the end of it." He gasps. "I'm aching already, now, John. Smoothing my fingers over the head and it's so good it _hurts_."  
  
John closes his eyes and bites his lip. Wiggles his legs to get his jeans to press down further; more of that pathetic friction.  
  
Sherlock takes a deep, luxurious breath. "How about you, John? Are you aching?"  
  
"Oh God," John wills his voice to sound normal, but it comes out strained and hissing. "Yes."  
  
Sherlock moans at that. "John," he says. "John." Voice so deep that it almost vibrates into John's hands holding the receiver. Then, suddenly, the line goes muffled for a few moments, giving out nothing but a vague rustling noise. It's a few moments before the clarity returns. "Needed lubricant," explains Sherlock, voice trailing into a long, drawn-out gasp.  
  
John bites his lip harder. At this point he finds it inconceivable that his flatmates don't know what he's doing on the phone, but he also finds that there's not anything in the world that would get him to stop. His imagination brings up images of Sherlock's long fingers trailing up the dark, slick skin of his cock, his neck and collarbones flushing pink in response, and oh God. John covers his face with one of his hands.  
  
Sherlock hums happily, then swallows and gives a few heavy pants, the obscene, slick slide of fingers becoming more discernible in the background. "If I was there with you right now," Sherlock pants, "do you know what I'd do?"  
  
John holds his breath. "No."  
  
"I'd take you into your bedroom and let you do whatever you wanted with me." Sherlock gasps, the noise curling into a dark moan. "Whatever you wanted, John. I'd go down on you. I'd let you fuck me. I'd tease you until you couldn't even stand it." The slick noises grow louder and Sherlock gasps again. "Oh God. I'd let you come in my mouth. I'd let you come in my hair. I want to taste you, John. I want to..." Sherlock's voice falters.  
  
John's arms shake where he's holding the phone and he has to huddle up against the wall just to keep himself steady. He tries to take a slow, measured breath and fails completely.  
  
Sherlock's breath hitches, once, then again. He swallows shakily. "John, I'm going to come," he whispers urgently. "Do you want me to come?"  
  
"Yes," gasps John. "Yes."  
  
Sherlock's breath stutters into a jerky whine and John is as good as done for. In his mind's eye, he can see everything: Sherlock stretched out taut, cock dark and impossibly hard as he comes in long, white lines onto his chest. On the other end of the phone, there's a squeak of bedsprings and a series of frantic gasps.  
  
"Jesus," hisses John, voice catching in his throat. "Jesus."  
  
Sherlock pants like a dying man. Slowly his breathing grows deeper, calming. Inhale. Exhale. Winding back down.  
  
John is so hard he doesn't know what to do with himself.  
  
Sherlock groans contentedly. "God, I need a cigarette," he says. "Enjoy yourself, John?"  
  
John can hardly speak. "Sherlock," he gasps, "I hope you don't mind me cutting this call short, but I really need to go. Right now."  
  
"Not at all." Sherlock chuckles. "Have fun. I'll call you tomorrow."  
  
"Right," says John. "I... God... Talk to you tomorrow."  
  
"Goodbye, John," says Sherlock warmly, and cuts the call.  
  
John replaces the receiver, takes a deep breath, and scrambles for his bedroom as fast as he can.  
  
***  
  
It's only later that evening, when the urgency of John's arousal has passed and he's lying in bed trying to sleep, that he's finally able to process their phone call. It's almost unbelievable. John's hardly been able to think straight since. Sherlock is just as captivating on the phone as he is in real life; like a force of nature, sweeping John along in the current of his words.  
  
Did Sherlock really admit to acting as a private detective? The boy who can't even remember what subject he's studying and he has time to go ferret out illicit love affairs? For God's sake, he seemed more anxious about a girl crying at him than he did about breaking and entering people's rooms, or pretending to be someone else just to get John's address.  
  
The whole thing suddenly seems so ridiculous, so unreal, that John has to muffle himself with a pillow to keep from laughing out loud.  
  
***  
  
Sherlock is as good as his word. He phones again the next evening. There's no preamble this time, hardly even a hello, before they move onto the sex. John's flatmates are once again sitting in the living room, but Sherlock's naked and already talking, and John listens as quietly as he can, cheeks flushed and hard in his trousers, as Sherlock gasps and moans and narrates everything he's doing in low, murmured tones.  
  
By the time the call's over, John can hardly stand to make it back to his room. His legs shake, and he has just about enough foresight to shut his bedroom door behind him before he has his hand in his underwear, panting into the tangle of his bedcovers.  
  
They fall into a pattern after that. Sherlock calls every few days, always in the evening when John's back from the hospital, and each time John strains to act normal for the benefit of his flatmates while Sherlock whispers obscene things into his ear.  
  
After two weeks though, John decides that he wants a little more than just sex.  
  
"John," says Sherlock when John answers the phone, "what did you want me to start with today? I was thinking..."  
  
"Have you done any more of your detective work recently?" asks John.  
  
Sherlock's already halfway through his next sentence before he realises that John's not playing by the script. "What?"  
  
"I mean," explains John, moving the receiver to his other hand, "have you taken on any more cases recently? I'd just... Well, I'd be interested to know."  
  
Sherlock pauses. "You want to know?" he asks, sounding skeptical.  
  
"Yes," says John with enthusiasm. "I mean, that last one, where you had to break into the Dean's office, that was fascinating. I was just wondering if you'd done anything similar."  
  
"Oh." Sherlock is quiet for a moment. "Really?"  
  
"Really," confirms John.  
  
Sherlock sniffs. "Well, I don't think I've taken on much that would interest you if it's my breaking and entering you're after. Things have been quite quiet recently. All I've done is retrieve a stolen bicycle."  
  
John smiles, already intrigued. "I don't mind," he says. "Tell me about the bicycle."  
  
"You...?" Sherlock pauses. "Fine." He huffs. "Three days ago, I received a call from an acquaintance of mine. He had a friend who'd had his bicycle stolen, and he'd suggested to this friend that I might be able to retrieve it for him. As I had nothing better to do at the time, I agreed to help."  
  
"So... he didn't call the police?" asks John.  
  
"Not immediately, no," says Sherlock. "And a good job, too. The police would have just trampled over everything and then waited for someone to hand the bike in. No, no; if this boy actually cared about his bike, which he does, then he'd want someone who could find it for him. Someone who can reason and deduce and actually think."  
  
John takes the cue, smirking, "You mean someone like you?"  
  
"Exactly," says Sherlock, apparently unfamiliar with modesty. "Most people in the police force are idiots, they really are." He sighs. "Anyway, I went to the boy's flat, which is where the bike was taken from. He's a postgraduate student but he lives in private accommodation. The area's reasonable; not somewhere you'd expect much crime."  
  
John tries to picture the scene. "So his bike was taken from outside his flat? Did he not have it chained up?"  
  
"No," counters Sherlock, "not outside. The bicycle was _inside_ his flat, in the hallway, and because he was out, his front door was locked the whole time. When he came home, the bike was gone and there were no signs of forced entry. Someone had managed to pass through a locked door, take the bicycle, and leave the rest of the flat pretty much undisturbed."  
  
"Oh," says John, frowning. "So the thief must have had a key, then?"  
  
On the other end of the line, Sherlock makes a happy noise. "Good, John!" he cries. "Very good. Yes. Precisely. The thief had a key, which narrowed things down a fair amount. I asked the boy if he knew anyone who had access to the flat; flatmates, girlfriends, parents, landlords, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, he told me that no-one has a key other than the landlord, who, as a frail 75-year old woman, he couldn't imagine stealing a racing bike."  
  
John laughs.  
  
"What?" Sherlock sounds confused. "What is it?"  
  
"Nothing," John giggles. "I'm just thinking of this old lady riding along on a stolen bicycle, is all."  
  
"Oh," says Sherlock. He coughs. "She didn't take it, John."  
  
"I know that." John laughs harder. "Of course I know that. I mean, it just sounded a little ridiculous."  
  
He's met by a confused sort of silence.  
  
"Sorry," says John. "Sorry." He clears his throat in an attempt to be serious. "Who did take the bike then?"  
  
"Ah. That's where it gets interesting," says Sherlock. "I could tell that it was a racing bike by the wallpaper in the hall; there were clear marks left by the handlebars. It was obvious that the bike was regularly stored there, which the boy confirmed. They weren't the only marks on the wall though. There were a couple of others; small tears in the wallpaper made by the zip on a bag. The edges of the tears were clean, which means that they were very recent."  
  
John is intrigued as to where this is going. "So the tears were made by the thief?"  
  
"It was a distinct possibility," says Sherlock, "and it was the height of the marks that was the most interesting. Their placement was too high for them to have come from anything other than a rucksack, but they were too low to have been made by my client, who stands at 6' 4" tall. In fact, they were really quite low, from which I gathered that the thief could only be 5' 5" at the most."  
  
"Wow," says John. "You got all that just from the wallpaper?"  
  
"Of course," replies Sherlock, as if it's obvious. "If you pay attention, you can read a lot about what's happened in all sorts of places." He huffs. "It was immediately clear to me what my next course of action should be. I asked my client if he kept any spare tires for the bicycle."  
  
"Spare tires?" asks John.  
  
Sherlock continues, "He didn't, but he did have a catalogue for the shop where he'd bought the bike, and from the pictures in that I was able to gather all the information I needed."  
  
"Right," says John, feeling as if he's getting a handle on this, "so you'd know what the bike looked like when you found it."  
  
Sherlock tuts. "Well, of course, yes," he says. "But that's not what was important. What was important was that the magazine had a picture of the exact tires that were on the bicycle when it was stolen, so I could study the treads."  
  
"Wait," starts John. "You don't mean..."  
  
"Luckily for us," says Sherlock, "it had rained earlier in the day. In fact, the conditions were perfect. Outside the flat, in a stretch of mud on the other side of the road, we found an imprint of the tire treads, confirming that the bike had been taken in that direction."  
  
"And you followed the trail," says John, amazed at how obvious it sounds now he's had it explained to him.  
  
"Well," Sherlock sniffs, "it wasn't quite that simple. You've been to Cambridge, John. It's a clean city; there's really not much mud around on the streets. There is just enough though. The trail of the treads was broken, with one mark on one street, another two streets away, and so forth, but we were able to follow it."  
  
John tries to picture it, with Sherlock searching a multitude of wet streets for tire tracks in the puddles. "That must have taken ages."  
  
"Not very," says Sherlock brightly, "I didn't have to search every street after all. With the weather as it was and the time of day the bike was stolen, taking into account the flow of traffic and the way the thief would have had to ride awkwardly on a saddle that was set too high, there were only a few routes that they could have taken."  
  
"What? Wait. Wait." John shakes his head. "Sorry. Are you saying that you could predict which way the thief went?"  
  
"For the most part," says Sherlock, as if it's not astounding in the slightest. "Anyway, we were able to follow the tracks to a pub on the other side of town, where we found the bicycle parked outside and the thief enjoying what she felt was a well-earned drink."  
  
"The thief was a girl, then?"  
  
"Oh yes. It was a distinct possibility from her height, but once in the pub, we could tell it was her immediately from the rucksack and the splash marks on her trousers." Sherlock pauses, sounding rather proud of himself. "My client didn't know who she was, but she confessed to stealing the bike readily enough; probably realised that she wasn't going anywhere with the both of us there. Turns out she used to rent the flat and had never given back all her copies of the keys." He huffs. "She needed money to feed a habit, decided on a whim to put her old key to good use, and took the first thing she saw when she entered the flat. She never thought anyone would be able to track her so quickly to the other side of town, which just goes to show how foolish most people are." Sherlock sighs. "At this point, my client decided to phone the police, but I left him to it; the last thing I wanted to do was hang around while they detained us all to give statements."  
  
"And, that's it?" asks John. "Your client must have been happy that you found his bike for him. Did you get a reward for this one?"  
  
"He was happy enough," says Sherlock, sounding uninterested, "but he only had enough money to give me £5. I knew that from the outset but, to be honest, I was so bored that day that I would have helped him for free."  
  
John laughs in disbelief. "You do this for free too? Running around looking at mud? You're either the most amazing person I've met or the most mad. I'm starting to think it's both."  
  
Sherlock laughs quietly on the other end of the phone. "Like I say, John: it's something to do. Keeps me occupied in this lifeless town."  
  
"God," says John, still not sure he can get his head around everything. "You are amazing, you know that? Actually amazing. Honestly, Sherlock, do you know how fascinating it is to hear about this stuff?  
  
"John," starts Sherlock, but John keeps talking.  
  
"It's hard," says John. "It's been so... Thank God my flatmates aren't in tonight. Sherlock, do you realise how difficult it has been for me to listen to you through all these phone calls? You're so... I have to sit here and listen to you, and it drives me crazy that I can't even say anything." John's fingers are trembling. "God, Sherlock. I still think about the evening I met you; the way you looked and the way you felt. It's turned everything I knew upside down and, Jesus, if I don't want to do it again." He swallows. "I want to see you, Sherlock. I want to touch you. I want to make you feel so good that you can hardly breathe from it. I want to see you flush up red from head to toe."  
  
Sherlock takes a ragged breath. "God, John."  
  
"Would you like that?" asks John, fumbling a hand down into the front of his trousers and squeezing desperately. "I want to make you come, Sherlock. I want to make you feel so good that you're shaking from the force of it."  
  
Sherlock breathes shallowly and his voice is dark when he says, "You're touching yourself, aren't you, John."  
  
"Of course I bloody am," huffs John, stroking now, just hard enough to make his breath catch. "What do you expect me to do when you're so astounding?"  
  
Sherlock moans then, a little frustrated thing, and huffs. "Not enough data."  
  
John stills his hand and swallows. "What?"  
  
Sherlock breathes out heavily. "Not enough data, John; I don't have nearly enough data to extrapolate what you're doing from sound alone."  
  
John quirks a smile. "You want to be able to work out what I'm doing?"  
  
"Of course," says Sherlock. "I need to learn. All I can tell at the moment is that you've stopped." He takes a deep breath. "God, John, don't stop."  
  
John bites his lip, tugs down underwear, and starts stroking again, already hard enough to feel it as a sharp twist of pleasure. He inhales.  
  
"That's better," breathes Sherlock. "Tell me what you're doing."  
  
John laughs to himself. "So you can learn what sounds I make?"  
  
Sherlock huffs. "It's not a difficult instruction to follow, John."  
  
"Fine," says John carefully, feeling his voice catch on the word anyway. He swallows. "I'm stroking myself."  
  
"Fast or slow?" asks Sherlock.  
  
John smiles. "Slow."  
  
On the other end of the line, Sherlock is quiet.  
  
"Sherlock?" asks John after a while. "Are you still..."  
  
"Go lower," says Sherlock.  
  
"You mean...?"  
  
"Focus on the base of the shaft." Sherlock's voice is business-like, but there's a slight breathlessness to it. John does as he's told, rocking his hips forward a little, biting his lip, and Sherlock follows it up with, "Interesting."  
  
John laughs without meaning to. "You sound like you're reading a textbook. Aren't you touching yourself too?"  
  
"I want to be able to concentrate," is Sherlock's reply. "Play with your testicles."  
  
And again, John does as he's told, stroking down from the base of his cock to gently squeeze his balls. He has to admit, there's something particularly filthy about the knowledge that he's the only one masturbating, but it's not quite what he had been hoping for. "Sherlock..."  
  
"Go back to stroking your cock. Do you have lubricant?"  
  
John gives a wry smile. "Not to hand, no."  
  
"Fast this time," says Sherlock. "Focus on the head."  
  
John groans as he follows the instructions, the sudden pleasure of it making his calves clench. He sucks in a breath and says, "Sherlock, I don't want to be the only one wanking on the phone."  
  
Sherlock pauses. "Oh," he says. "Oh, of course." His voice drops deeper. "You're turned on by the sound of me masturbating."  
  
John swallows. "Well, yes," he says. "Yes, but I want you to feel good too. I mean it. I want us to come together."  
  
Sherlock hums, a long, luxurious thing. "Fair enough," he says. There's a rustling noise, and suddenly John can hear the thick, wet sound of Sherlock stroking himself, loud enough in John's ear that Sherlock must be holding the phone down near his cock. It's obscene.  
  
"Shit," says John, his arousal coiling upwards. "Shit, shit." His cock jumps dangerously under his palm and he has to still his hand before he loses it completely. He leans against the wall gasping desperately for breath.  
  
The phone must be back at Sherlock's ear, because John hears him give out a chuckle that tapers into a sigh. "Very interesting," says Sherlock. "You've stopped again," he adds, seemingly as an afterthought.  
  
"Yeah, well," John runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. "I thought I'd give you time to catch up."  
  
"And I thought I told you to focus on the head. Fast."  
  
"Sherlock," warns John, his hands obeying the command of their own accord, "if I keep this up, I'm going to come right now."  
  
"You say that as if it's a problem." Sherlock inhales, and his voice is deep dark when he repeats, "Focus on the head. Fast."  
  
"Jesus." John doesn't have the will to disobey. The feeling is sweet and hot and so intense that he curls in on himself until he's almost doubled over. It's all far too much. He can hardly bear it. Sherlock breathes raggedly on the other end of the line, and John comes to the sound, making a mess of his T-shirt in the process.  
  
"John." Sherlock's voice catches. "That was very educational. Thank you."  
  
John laughs out loud, breathlessly, slumping back against the wall. He can't help himself. "You, Sherlock, are one of a kind. You really are."  
  
Sherlock huffs in a smug sort of a way, but John doesn't give him a chance to do anything else.  
  
"We were going to come together," John stretches his neck and rolls his shoulders, wipes himself down with a tissue, "but since that didn't happen, you're going to have to make the most of it."  
  
Sherlock sounds amused. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Go slow." John cradles the phone in his hand. "Make it last. Now I'm alone, I want to savour it."  
  
John hears Sherlock swallow on the other end of the line. "I'm too far gone for slow, John."  
  
"No you're not." John brushes his fingers over the inside of his thigh. "Try it for me."  
  
Sherlock takes a shivery sounding breath and exhales slowly.  
  
"How does it feel?" asks John after a moment.  
  
Sherlock sighs. "Unbearable."  
  
John grins. "I wish I could be there to see you right now, Sherlock. I'd help you along; cover your fingers with my own; feel your cock straining for me to touch it."  
  
Sherlock hums some more. "I'd like that," he breathes. "What else would you do?"  
  
"God," John smooths his hand under his T-shirt and up the skin of his stomach. "Whatever you wanted me to do, Sherlock. We could go fast. We could go slow. I could tease you on and off until you're so close you're almost screaming."  
  
Sherlock makes a strained noise on the other end of the phone.  
  
John licks his lips. "I'd see how many times I could make you come in a night. I'd... Jesus. I want to feel your cock again."  
  
"John..." murmurs Sherlock.  
  
"What does it look like right now? Your cock." John closes his eyes. "I want to picture you."  
  
"Red." Sherlock hisses. "Hard. The foreskin pulled back almost... ah..."  
  
"How close are you?" whispers John.  
  
Sherlock voice is breathless. "Very."  
  
"Oh God." John's cock twitches and he's almost tempted to touch himself again. He makes do with stroking a line over his hip instead. "Come for me," he says. "What do you normally do to make yourself come, Sherlock? I want you to do it."  
  
"I..." Sherlock's voice falters, and the line fills with slick noises.  
  
John curls his fingers against his thigh and bites his lip as Sherlock gives out a frantic whimper, then a gasp and finally comes with a broken cry.  
  
The slick noises slow until the line is full of nothing but Sherlock's heavy breathing.  
  
John leans his head against the wall and smiles. "Good?" he asks.  
  
"Good," is Sherlock's warm reply.

***

The next time Sherlock phones, John asks him about his detective work again. In response, Sherlock recounts a tale about a stolen cheque-book and a deep fat fryer that's as astounding as it is absurd; John tells him just as much and the sex that follows is a frantic, gasping, wonderful thing.  
  
Without realising it, the pattern of their phone calls changes. Now, John takes the time to ask Sherlock about his cases and Sherlock hardly needs much prompting to talk about them. In fact, John's pretty sure that Sherlock enjoys telling his stories as much as John enjoys listening to them; so much so that sometimes they get so engrossed in the details of a case that they forget to move on to the sex at all.  
  
It is all utterly fascinating. John can't quite believe that half of it is true, and he suspects that Sherlock may be embellishing things but, God, John's never met anyone as captivating before.  
  
More than once, John tries to get Sherlock to agree to meet up, but each time Sherlock evades the question by reminding John that neither of them has the time to travel. Unfortunately, Sherlock is right, but John can't help wonder if it's just an excuse.  
  
He starts to despair that, despite all the phone calls, he'll never see Sherlock again.  
  
***  
  
John is particularly shocked, therefore, at 10 o'clock one Friday morning, when he answers a knock at the door to find Sherlock standing on the doorstep to his flat.  
  
Sherlock hefts up a leather travel-bag from the floor and says, "My brother's coming to visit."  
  
"What?" John doesn't... He didn't even... Sherlock looks so much younger than he'd remembered, all skinny and tall in his coat and smart shoes as he brushes past John and steps inside.  
  
"My brother's visiting so I thought I'd stay for the week." Sherlock drops his bag onto the carpet and looks around the hall. "You don't mind, do you?"  
  
"I..." John's smiling without meaning to. "No, I..." He shakes his head. "Here though? Wh..."  
  
"Of course here." Sherlock hangs up his coat wanders into the living room, picking things up and putting them down. "I didn't bring a week's worth of clothes just for the fun of it." He glances into the kitchen and laughs. "A microwave! I knew you had one. I'm hardly ever wrong about those."  
  
"Wait. But..." John barely knows where to start. "Your brother..." he says, following Sherlock into the kitchen. "Your brother is coming here for the week to visit you?"  
  
"What?" Sherlock puts down the toaster looks at John for the first time since he's arrived. "No." He wrinkles his nose. "No no no. My brother isn't visiting me _here_. He's visiting me in _Cambridge_." Sherlock grins. "Or at least he thinks he is. Shame I won't be able to see his face when he turns up and finds out that I'm not there."  
  
John's not sure he can get it all straight. "You don't want to see your brother?"  
  
Sherlock makes a disgusted sort of a face. "No. God, no. Not if I can't help it, and I can." He surveys the room. "My brother will never think of looking for me here. It's brilliant!"  
  
"Right," says John, feeling confused and giddy all at the same time. "God, I'm so... But... Wait. The door to the building is locked. How did you manage to...?"  
  
Sherlock shrugs, opening the fridge to peer inside. "Your flatmate was going out as I was coming in."  
  
"David?" asks John. "You knew he was my flatmate?"  
  
"Saw him pocketing his keys." Sherlock closes the fridge and opens the freezer instead. "The fob has your flat number written on it. Quite obvious; I'd sort that out if I were you. It looked like he was out for the day judging by the jacket he was carrying." He shuts the freezer door. "And it goes without saying that your other flatmate has gone away to visit her parents for the weekend." Sherlock shrugs. "Well, adoptive parents anyway."  
  
"Adoptive...?" starts John.  
  
Sherlock turns around and peers at John for a moment. "You didn't know?" He sniffs. "Well, I suppose she has her reasons for keeping it secret. Probably best not to mention it."  
  
John gapes then checks himself and runs a hand through his hair instead. In the space of five minutes, he has been forcibly reminded of just why he found Sherlock so intriguing in the first place. "Sorry." John presses his lips together and tries not to grin like a lunatic. "I'm a little... I wasn't expecting any visitors today."  
  
"Well, that much is obvious." Sherlock smiles and seems to lose his interest in rummaging through everything because he settles back against the counter, his whole appearance oddly smart against the student clutter around him. He folds his arms and looks at John expectantly. " _So_."  
  
John is shocked into action. "Yes," he says. "Sorry. Yes. Would you like a cup of tea then?" He turns around to fill the kettle. "I was a little stunned when you turned up, but that doesn't mean that I'm not glad to see you. Because I am."  
  
"John." Sherlock sounds a little put-out, and John turns back to find him pouting. "This is the first time we've seen each other in months, your flatmates are out, and all you can think to do is offer me tea?"  
  
Oh. _Oh_.  
  
John's cheeks heat of their own accord. "Oh, right then." He looks at Sherlock. "Had something else in mind, did you?"  
  
Sherlock grins.  
  
John smiles right back.  
  
"Come on." Sherlock walks out of the kitchen and, with unnerving accuracy, heads straight through the flat and directly into John's bedroom.  
  
John follows as best he can. "I'm not sure if I should be worried that you already know where my bedroom is."  
  
Sherlock sighs, toeing off his shoes beside John's wardrobe, then bending down to take off his socks. "It's not hard, John. You leave your trainers by the door. They're not your flatmate's; his feet are too large."  
  
"That's..." John checks, and his trainers are indeed sitting outside his bedroom door. He looks at Sherlock. "You could really tell what size feet my flatmate had? Just by passing him downstairs?"  
  
"Of course." Sherlock undoes the buttons of his shirt. He glances at John. "And I'm sure you could too. All you need to do is pay attention; it's easy."  
  
"No, it's not," says John. "It's really not..."  
  
Sherlock gives him a sly smile then focuses on his cuffs. "So," he says. "What do you want? I wasn't lying on the phone when I said that you could do whatever you wanted with me."  
  
John stares as Sherlock tosses his shirt to the floor then starts on his belt buckle. His chest his pale, arms long, just as John remembers but more-so. The memory is suddenly hot and sharp and John had forgotten quite how _male_ Sherlock was. John's face flushes with arousal at the thought of it.  
  
Remembering himself, John shuts the bedroom door then pulls the curtains, his heart racing. "I don't mind," he says, feeling a little overwhelmed at all the possibilities. "You must have a preference."  
  
"No," says Sherlock. The dim light catches on his thighs as he pushes down his trousers and his underwear. He's already half-hard. "You're the inexperienced one, so you get to set the pace." He looks at John.  
  
John grins. He can't help himself; he's still riding the wave of happiness that spiked as soon as he answered the door. "God, look at you," he says, shaking his head. "Ok, then. Kiss me. I want you to kiss me."  
  
Sherlock does as he's told, crossing the room, cupping John's cheeks in his palms and, Jesus Christ. The kiss is not chaste in the slightest. It's slick and invasive and John tries to give as good as he gets, gasping at the feel of Sherlock's shoulders under his fingers, Sherlock's cock growing hard against his stomach.  
  
By the time they break apart, John's mind is made up. He knows what he wants; has known it all along really. Late in the evenings, after their phone calls, touching himself with the desperation of a madman, there's one thing John likes to imagine the most.  
  
He looks up at Sherlock and tries not to smile too widely. "I want to suck your cock."  
  
Sherlock's eyelids flutter involuntarily, even as his brows quirk into a frown. "Are you sure, John? Don't feel like you ha..."  
  
"No." John does smile this time. "I want to."  
  
Sherlock's lips curl up at the corners. "You're always a surprise, John."  
  
John laughs. "I could easily say the same. Come on." He nudges Sherlock in the direction of the bed. "Sit down."  
  
Sherlock obliges, all long limbs and sharp angles, and John has far too many clothes on. He lifts his T-shirt over his head and tugs off his jeans as Sherlock arranges himself on the bed, feet on the floor, knees spread, fingers smoothing up the length of his erection.  
  
"Good God." There's no time for John to take off his underwear. He's on his knees before he knows it, pressing himself between Sherlock's thighs and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's hips.  
  
Sherlock makes a low rumbling noise in his chest, his erection jolting up to his belly as he pulls his hand out of the way. John doesn't stand on ceremony. He gives in to the urge and drops his face to Sherlock's groin, breathing in and pressing a kiss to the base of Sherlock's shaft.  
  
The soft exhale that Sherlock lets out has John's hands shaking. This is far better than anything he could imagine. Sherlock's cock is hard and dark, aggressively erect and unbearably tempting. John can't see anything else. He cups it with his fingers and holds it still as he runs his tongue up its length in a broad, wet swipe.  
  
God. The taste of it has John moaning. He's so hard in his pants that he's having trouble breathing.  
  
Sherlock huffs a laugh. "Oh, John," he murmurs, "how you could ever doubt your bisexuality is utterly beyond me."  
  
John sniggers breathlessly. He can't quite believe it himself. Six months ago he wouldn't ever have thought he'd be here now, with the taste of cock on his tongue and a boy's hand on his shoulder. He didn't have a clue what he was missing. John runs his tongue across the head, curling his fingers around the base and stroking. Sherlock takes a breath, the muscles of his stomach tightening inwards, and John's moaning again.  
  
Oh, John can't bear to play coy any longer. He slides Sherlock's cock into his mouth, stretching his lips around it, and takes it as deep as he can.  
  
Sherlock's breath catches in his throat.  
  
John closes his eyes and bobs his head, tries to build up a rhythm and tries to remember how he likes to have his own cock sucked. He doesn't have much chance to worry about technique though; he's too busy with the feel of a hard cock against his tongue, the ridges and bumps and soft skin, the compelling heat of it, the way it jumps as he moves. John loses himself in the moment, in wet and heat and skin. Time slows seconds into hours.  
  
Sherlock makes another deep, rumbling sort of a noise, and when John rests his free hand against Sherlock's thigh, he can feel the muscles straining beneath his fingertips.  
  
"John," breathes Sherlock.  
  
Jesus. John's shoulders shiver. He's harder than he thought was possible, his own cock straining against the material of his underwear, his face burning up. Sherlock's cock twitches against John's tongue again and John clutches onto Sherlock's thigh for dear life.  
  
"John," breathes Sherlock again. His fingers slip from John's shoulder to slide through John's hair. "John, I'm close."  
  
Oh. John lifts his head for the first time in an age and the fingers in his hair tighten. Sherlock's cock, when he releases it, is deep red, swollen thick and glistening. John looks up and is almost surprised to see that, far from his normal, pale, smug expression, Sherlock's face is crimson with pleasure, the edges of his smile tugging into desperation.  
  
If John ever had any doubts about how this was going to end, they disappear in an instant. He ducks his head, takes Sherlock back into his mouth and sucks hard.  
  
The noise Sherlock makes is almost a whine.  
  
John bobs his head as fast as he can, revelling in the lewd, wet noises his own mouth is making and waiting, wanting...  
  
"John," says Sherlock with a hint of warning. "John." Two hands clutch in John's hair and John breathes hard through his nose.  
  
Sherlock's cock jumps, so do the muscles in his thighs, and then he's coming across John's tongue. God God God oh God. John moans at the back of his throat and tries, desperately tries, to swallow as much as he can. If he doesn't touch his own cock soon, he thinks he might die from the force of his own arousal.  
  
Finally, Sherlock stops ejaculating. He's panting like he's going to pass out, his fingers stroking through John's hair.  
  
It's with some reluctance that John finally lets Sherlock's cock go. He sits back on his heels and wipes at his mouth with his hand.  
  
Sherlock smiles at him in a dazed sort of a way. "Your technique needs a little work, but full marks for enthusiasm."  
  
John smiles in return and tries to work out if he's supposed to reply to that.  
  
"Oh, come on." Sherlock clearly gives up on conversation as a bad job, because he stands and bodily hauls John up to lie on the bed. "My turn," Sherlock says.  
  
John would say something modest about how Sherlock shouldn't feel obliged to return the favour, but Sherlock's already tugged off John's underwear, pushed his legs apart, and taken his cock into his mouth.  
  
"Oh God," babbles John.  
  
Sherlock sucks cock like an Olympic athlete. It's masterful; fast and frenetic and sweet, hot, wet, and when Sherlock hollows his cheeks John gives out a broken cry.  
  
Its just right and not enough and too much too much and John clutches onto the bed covers for dear life, hips straining upwards.  
  
Sherlock keeps going. He doesn't stop until John's shivering, shuddering, pressing his palms into his eyes and oh God oh God oh God. John comes with an explosion of euphoria and Sherlock keeps on sucking until John's vision goes white at the edges. Then, and only then, does Sherlock let John go.  
  
"Oh Jesus." John can't catch his breath. He rests an arm against his forehead, his chest heaving.  
  
Sherlock gives him a smug smile and stands up.  
  
John watches, weak and boneless, as Sherlock pulls on his shirt, rummages in his trouser pockets to pull out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, then steps up to the window, opening the curtains and hauling up the sash.  
  
Sherlock settles himself on the floor by the sill and lights a cigarette, taking a deep drag, and hanging his arms over the window-ledge to exhale out into the sharp London air.  
  
He turns to John. "Don't mind if I smoke out of the window, do you?"  
  
"Er," John's ability to think has gone a little fuzzy. "No. Go ahead."  
  
Sherlock's mouth twitches into a smile and he takes another drag, blowing the smoke outside.  
  
"God," says John. He runs a hand over his face. "We need to try that again sometime."  
  
"I may be younger than you," says Sherlock, "but I do need _some_ time to recover, John."  
  
John looks at him and bursts into giggles. "I don't mean right now." He curls his knees up to his chest. "Oh, wow. I don't think I could if I wanted to."  
  
Sherlock's smile widens. He leans his head out of the window and looks down into the street.  
  
"So," says John after a moment of staring at Sherlock's long legs and bare arse, "are you up for that cup of tea yet?"  
  
Sherlock sighs. "'When a man is tired of London he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.'" He throws a glance at John as he takes another drag from his cigarette. "Even the walk here from the tube station was fascinating. Cambridge is so dull in comparison you can't even imagine."  
  
John smiles. "Want to go take a look around?"  
  
"Yes." Sherlock turns his head to look as someone shouts at the other end of the road. "Yes, I would like that."  
  
"Well, then." John sits up and scratches at the back of his neck, trying to compile a list of all the locations on the tourist trail. "Where do you want to go? We could start with Buckingham Palace..."  
  
Sherlock snorts. "Boring."  
  
"The Houses of Parliament?"  
  
"Dull."  
  
"The British Museu..."  
  
Sherlock gives a weary sigh.  
  
John frowns. "What about Regent's P..."  
  
"Take me to St Bart's," says Sherlock.  
  
John pauses. "St Bart's?"  
  
Sherlock looks at him and smiles. "I want to see where you study."  
  
"You..." John scratches a hand through his hair, but Sherlock looks so excited that he gives in. "Ok then," agrees John, "we'll go see where I study."  
  
The grin that Sherlock gives him in return is rather manic in all respects.  
  
***  
  
John doesn't live too far from the City but it's raining slightly so they decide to take the bus rather than walk.  
  
Sherlock has the seat next to the window and he stares out at the people on the street as they make their way down the Whitechapel Road occasionally peering past John to stare out of the window on the other side of the bus too. He's almost like a kid in a sweet shop and John has to try hard not to chuckle at the analogy because it's terribly close to the truth.  
  
"You're young, you know," says John, watching him. "Younger than I remember."  
  
"Oh please." Sherlock waves a thin hand. "I'm not young. I'm 18. Or at least I will be soon." His eyes follow a restaurant as they go past. "Must be having financial difficulties," he mutters. "And you're exactly as old as I remember." Sherlock flashes John a grin. "But don't worry; I don't mind."  
  
John frowns, and goes to retort, when he's stopped by a ringing noise. It continues for a few moments. John looks around, sure that it's coming from... but Sherlock doesn't seem to be...  
  
"Sherlock," says John, "is that your mobile phone ringing?"  
  
"Hmm?" Sherlock turns to John. "Oh. Yes. Don't worry about that." And he turns back to the window.  
  
The phone continues ringing. "Er," John frowns, "aren't you going to answer it?"  
  
Sherlock scoffs. "No. It'll be my brother and I don't want to talk to him. Besides," he sniffs nonchalantly, "I never answer my phone."  
  
John looks at him, feeling rather giddy again. "You answered it when I called."  
  
Sherlock gives him a small smile. After a moment, he turns and points down the bus. "See that man over there?" he says. "Allergic to his washing powder. Look at the way he keeps scratching underneath his collar."  
  
John looks over and the man does indeed look uncomfortable. "Washing powder though?" asks John. "How could you possibly know it's that? Maybe it's just an insect bite or something."  
  
"No no no. You need to look more closely," says Sherlock. "See how he's using the heel of his shoe to scratch at his ankle as well? It's the socks too. But he's not scratching at his trousers. Obvious really; they get washed less often." He grins. "The shirt and socks probably got put in the wash at his girlfriend's place. She doesn't know he's allergic and he didn't have the heart to point out her mistake."  
  
"Girlfriend?" asks John. "How do you...?"  
  
"Oh, come on." Sherlock looks at him. "If a member of your family or a friend did the same, don't you think you'd tell them rather than sitting there itching all day?"  
  
"Well," says John. "When you put it like that..."  
  
"Over there." Sherlock points with a tilt of the head. "Woman in the scarf. Owns a Jack Russell."  
  
"What?" asks John.  
  
"The hairs on her jacket," says Sherlock. "Quite distinctive. Of course, it's impossible to be 100% certain from this distance, but I'd say they were from a Jack Russell."  
  
John stares at him. "You can tell what breed it is just from a few lone hairs?"  
  
"Of course." Sherlock's lips twitch upwards, then he turns and makes observations about the other people on the bus one-by-one: psoriasis; dies his hair; jet-lagged; mildly allergic to peanuts; just refurbished her bathroom.  
  
"Seriously?" asks John. "Now you're just making it up."  
  
A smile flickers over Sherlock's face. "Do you see the spots of paint in her hair?" he says. "She's been painting the ceiling, and that colour of blue could only be from a bathroom."  
  
"It could be a bedroom," suggests John.  
  
"And I suppose that would explain," says Sherlock, "why she has bath sealant on her hands?"  
  
John looks and there are definitely splotches of something white on her hands. "That's..." He turns back to Sherlock. "You really... How did you even notice that? That's actually amazing."  
  
Sherlock beams at him, then leans close. "And, of course, I could tell you that the man sitting behind us has a drinking problem, but if you can't smell that for yourself, John, there's no hope."  
  
John sniggers without meaning to and has to scrabble to stifle himself before he offends anyone.  
  
***  
  
St Bart's, when they get there, is just as busy as it normally is. John's not too thrilled to be there on a day when he doesn't have a shift, but he tries to give Sherlock as much of a tour as he can anyway.  
  
They start with the touristy parts; the fountain in the square, the great hall, the grand staircase. It's not wrong to say that John is a little proud of the place, but Sherlock spends the whole time huffing and staring at his shoes and not looking very interested at all.  
  
John stops them halfway up the stairs. "Sherlock, I thought you wanted to see where I study?"  
  
Sherlock gestures around them, at the walls, the paintings. "And you study here, do you?"  
  
"Well," admits John, "I don't spend much time right here on a day-to-day basis, but..."  
  
"Precisely," says Sherlock, and turns to head back the way they came. "I want to see where you study, John. I want to see where things actually happen!"  
  
John hurries after him and quickly alters their tour to a less scenic one. They see the outpatients department instead, and the wards, the lecture theatres, but it's not until they reach the teaching laboratories that Sherlock really perks up.  
  
"Oh, very nice," says Sherlock, surveying the long, clean benches in one of the labs. He heads to the wall and rifles through a rack of pipettes, then turns on the lights in the fume hood and listens to the whirring of the fans. "I could get on well here."  
  
"Sherlock," hisses John, looking around to see if anybody is watching as Sherlock opens cupboards to reveal beakers and sharps bins and measuring cylinders, "you can't just start..."  
  
"Hmm, no. You're right, John." Sherlock stands and heads towards the door. "I suppose teaching laboratories can only get you so far." He turns and smiles. "You do have some proper research labs, I suppose? With incubators and PCR machines and a decent supply of urea?"  
  
"Why...? Sherlock..." John gets a disturbing premonition as Sherlock turns around and strides purposefully out into the corridor. "Sherlock! Wait!" John hurries after him and manages to catch up just before Sherlock turns the corner into the haematology unit.  
  
"I can't just let you wander into someone's lab!" says John.  
  
Sherlock looks at him as if he's gone mad. "But..." Sherlock starts, then tosses his head and huffs. "I suppose not," he concedes. "All my notes are in Cambridge anyway." He turns and glances around at the corridor. "Shall we continue with the tour then?"  
  
John relaxes, feeling like he's just averted a minor incident. "Ok," he says, heading off down the corridor. "I was thinking..."  
  
"And I suppose you study anatomy, do you?" asks Sherlock.  
  
John stops and looks at him. "What?"  
  
"Anatomy," repeats Sherlock, "I'm sure you study it as part of your course."  
  
"I do," says John. "Wh..."  
  
"Brilliant." Sherlock claps his hands. "Take me there. I'd love to see your dissection rooms. Do you keep your cadavers on site?"  
  
John frowns at him. "You want to see where we keep the cadavers?"  
  
"If it's not too much trouble," starts Sherlock. "I..." He pauses at the look on John's face, then takes a breath and stares at his shoe. "Well, you see," he continues, sounding rather uncertain. "I was thinking that I might want to go into medicine when I finish my degree." He looks at John. "But I'm not really sure if I might find it a bit," he grimaces, "squeamish."  
  
"Oh," says John, realisation dawning. "You want to see what's involved."  
  
Sherlock smiles at him. "Exactly."  
  
***  
  
John hasn't come down to the mortuary much this term. He's always found the basement a little cold and clinical to be honest, but he's still proud of it all the same.  
  
Unfortunately, the basement isn't exactly a place that's open to the public. John's just about to lead Sherlock through the doors to the mortuary when they're stopped by a member of security.  
  
"Hello, lads," he says, walking up towards them. "Are you meant to be down here?"  
  
"Er, yes." John pulls his pass out of his pocket. "I'm a student."  
  
The guard takes the pass and smiles at Sherlock. "And are you a student too?"  
  
For a moment John thinks their game is up, but Sherlock doesn't appear fazed in the slightest.  
  
"Yes," says Sherlock, rummaging through his pockets. "Yes, I..." He rummages some more, tries using his other hand, then swears under his breath. "I don't have it." He casts a beseeching look at John. "Shit, I must have left it at home. John, did you see me...? God, I hope I haven't lost it." He runs a nervous hand through his hair.  
  
"Don't worry about it." The security guard gives John's pass back to him with a smile. "Go ahead." He glances at Sherlock. "Just remember it next time, ok?"  
  
"Thanks," says Sherlock gratefully. "Will do." And together he and John head through the doors and into the mortuary.  
  
"That was close," breathes John, when the doors swing shut behind them, "and impressive. Very impressive"  
  
Sherlock smirks. "It's not that hard. Most people are surprisingly trusting." He looks around and there's a gleam in his eye. "Oh, this is perfect!" He dances over to the drawers in the wall. "They've stopped letting me into the mortuary at Addenbrooke's now. The problem with people being trusting is that they do catch on eventually."  
  
"Wait..." starts John.  
  
"And I don't see what their problem is." Sherlock pulls open one of the drawers to reveal a body bag. "It was only a little bit of bleach."  
  
"No. Wait," says John as he watches Sherlock gleefully unzip the bag, "I thought you said you were sque..."  
  
"Hello?" calls a technician as he walks into the room. "What's going on?"  
  
"Ah." John freezes. "We were just..."  
  
"We're collecting the body for Dr Powell," says Sherlock, wheeling around a trolley. "We shouldn't need any help."  
  
"Dr Powell?" asks the technician. "She didn't tell me anything about this."  
  
"She didn't?" Sherlock looks up. "But she said she'd rung down this morning. Did someone else take the call?"  
  
"This is the first I've heard about it," says the technician. "Sorry, but I can't let you do this without authorisation."  
  
"You... Seriously?" Sherlock stares at him. "But you've already had..."  
  
The technician shakes his head. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."  
  
Sherlock glowers, then huffs. "Fine," he grumbles, stalking towards the door. "Come on, John, we'll have to ask Dr Powell to ring down again."  
  
John stares at Sherlock and the technician, and hurriedly follows Sherlock out into the corridor.  
  
"Oh, God. What was that?" John should be worried that Sherlock nearly got him into a lot of trouble, but he can't help wheezing at the absurdity of it. "Were you really planning to...? How far did you think you were going to get?"  
  
"As far as necessary." Sherlock pouts. "Shame. That line normally works too."  
  
"Normally?" John's not sure if he's having fun or if he's hysterical. "You... How do you even know who Dr Powell is?"  
  
"Saw her name on the board as we went in," says Sherlock sullenly. He scuffs his foot on the floor. "Where am I suppose to get a body n..." He gasps. "Oh, stupid," he mutters, eyes lighting up. "Of course. I'm forgetting where we are."  
  
"What?" asks John. "You know where we are?"  
  
***  
  
The trading has stopped in Smithfield market for the day, but the smell of raw meat still hangs sickly sweet in the air.  
  
Sherlock strides under the grand archway of the market building, and it's all John can do to keep up with him.  
  
"Sherlock," he says, "I don't think they're still ope..."  
  
"Hmm." Sherlock ignores John in favour of glancing over his shoulder and then dashing through one of the open gates that lead into the market hall.  
  
John watches him disappear and purses his lips.  
  
Well then.  
  
He could wait for Sherlock to come back out but... With a quick check that the coast is clear, John follows Sherlock inside.  
  
The smell of raw meat is stronger in the market hall even though there's very little meat to actually be seen. There's no-one around either. Most of the stalls have already packed up and gone home for the day, leaving empty benches, bits of cardboard box and other scraps of rubbish on the floor.  
  
John finds Sherlock rummaging through a pile of empty boxes on a bench.  
  
"Sherlock," whispers John, "what exactly are we doing here?"  
  
"That's," starts Sherlock, then abruptly cuts himself short and stares out across the hall. John follows his gaze to see a porter on a fork-lift truck driving along the far wall.  
  
Quickly, Sherlock ducks below the bench and holds himself still. John does the same, breathing fast and watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Not for the first time that day, John wonders what's going to happen if they get found somewhere they don't belong.  
  
Eventually, the noise of the fork-lift recedes as it drives out of the market hall, leaving them alone again. John takes a deep breath, but Sherlock's already climbing out from under the bench and heading off down between the stalls where it's less exposed. John follows, still not entirely sure what this is all about.  
  
It's not easy going between the stalls. John has to move boxes and pallets out of the way, finding it hard to keep up with Sherlock as he dodges between the detritus with seemingly no trouble at all. After a while, John gives up and decides to take a path that's slightly less of an obstacle course. He leaves Sherlock looking under tables and going through a huge stack of crates to walk further down the hall instead.  
  
Above John's head swing a row of empty meat-hooks. There's something about them that's both magnificent and unsettling at the same time. John can only imagine what the place is like when it's open for trading, with the grand Victorian architecture swamped by the noise and the bustle of meat being traded to and fro.  
  
He walks on a little more, watching the light from the high windows as it catches on the floor. It might be worth coming back when the place is actually open, but that train of thought is derailed suddenly when John becomes aware of quick footsteps behind him.  
  
He freezes, looks around, and Sherlock nearly crashes into him.  
  
"John." Sherlock hugs his coat to his chest. "Run. Run now!"  
  
"Hey!" calls a voice. "What do you think you're...?"  
  
John doesn't stop to listen. He dashes after Sherlock as fast as he can, ducking and weaving between the stalls, the sound of footsteps following after them as their pursuer makes chase.  
  
Sherlock can run fast on his long legs; he barrels out of the market hall, through the covered avenue, across the road, and down into busy Cowcross Street, pushing his way through a crowd of people.  
  
John tails him, chest heaving, lungs burning, dodging past the crowds. The footsteps behind them are drowned out by the noise of the throng and John shoulders his way through, finally able to catch up with Sherlock as he turns a corner into a quiet side street.  
  
Sherlock leans back against a wall and takes a few large gulps of air. John looks behind them to check that no-one's there, then leans his hands on his knees and breathes out, relief and triumph bearing down on him in equal measure. The corners of his mouth are curling upwards of their own accord.  
  
"Seems like we shouldn't have been in the market after it had closed, then," says John, swallowing and raising his head.  
  
There's an oddly manic gleam in Sherlock's eye. "Well, not just that," he says, and a smile crawls across his face as he opens his coat and pulls out a whole leg of pork, trotter and all.  
  
"That's..." John stares. "That's a pig's leg." He laughs without meaning to. "You've stolen a pig's leg!" And it must be hysteria that makes laughter well up in John's chest, because it's not that funny and did they honestly go through all that so Sherlock could steal a... John collapses into a fit of giggles. It's absurd. Utterly utterly... Oh Jesus. And Sherlock looks so proud of himself! John's laughing hard enough that tears are coming out of his eyes.  
  
He tries to calm himself. "Why, on Earth...?" And he's off giggling again.  
  
"If I can't dissect a human body, I need the next best thing."  
  
John wipes his eyes and looks up to see Sherlock grinning like a lunatic. "You are actually, mad, you know that?" sniggers John, biting his lip. "Completely, utterly barmy."  
  
"Thank you," says Sherlock, looking very pleased with himself.  
  
John can't bear it. His sides are hurting. "That wasn't meant to be a..." he starts. "Oh, God." And he's laughing again.  
  
"John," says Sherlock sharply, and there's a warning in his voice. "John, we need to go."  
  
Taking a deep breath, John looks around, and sees one of the porters from the market wandering past the end of the street.  
  
Sherlock sets off at a run. Stealing himself, John follows.  
  
***  
  
They have to make a large diversion, but they make it back to John's flat on foot without any more trouble, stopping only once on their journey, in a corner shop, to get a carrier bag in which to hide the evidence.  
  
The odd thing, though, is that the whole time from market to flat, it's Sherlock who leads the way.  
  
John doesn't really notice that something's up until they're inside the safety of his building. "You," he says, putting the key in the door to his flat and trying to calm his breathing. "You know the way to my flat." He opens the door, and they tumble into the hall, exhausted and relieved.  
  
"Of course I do," says Sherlock, running a hand through his hair and dumping the carrier bag on the hallway floor in order to take off his coat.  
  
"You know your way around London." John shuts the door and takes off his jacket. He swallows. "You know your way around London and yet you asked me to be your tour-guide."  
  
Sherlock shrugs as he toes off his shoes. "It only seemed fair. Besides, I've never been to this part of London before."  
  
John gapes at him. "You've never...?"  
  
"I have an A to Z," explains Sherlock.  
  
"What?" John can't... "Are you telling me you've memorised the whole area purely from looking at a map?"  
  
Sherlock smiles, almost guiltily.  
  
"God, you're bloody marvellous." And John pushes him up against the wall and kisses him.  
  
Sherlock kisses back with enthusiasm, breathing hard through his nose when John tugs his shirt out of his trousers.  
  
John can't bear it. He's never met anyone quite like Sherlock before; has never wanted anyone quite like Sherlock before. In the space of half a day, John's been astounded and amazed and nearly arrested. It's quite possibly the best thing that's ever happened to him.  
  
And it's completely ridiculous.  
  
Sherlock breaks the kiss when John's shoulders start shaking. "John," Sherlock smiles. "John, you're laughing."  
  
"Sorry." John wipes his eyes. "It's just.... We've just run halfway across London with a leg of pork!"  
  
Sherlock chuckles, tugging open his collar. "You know, it was probably a good thing that they didn't let us have that body from the mortuary." He smirks down at John. "We would have had terrible trouble trying to fit it into a carrier bag."  
  
John laughs harder, leaning onto Sherlock for support. It takes a few moments for him to pull himself together. He looks up a Sherlock, who grins down in return.  
  
"Come on." John smiles like a madman. "I don't know about you, but I've got far too many clothes on." And he takes Sherlock by the elbow and tugs him into his bedroom.  
  
***  
  
The curtains are still half-closed the way they left them earlier, Sherlock's packet of cigarettes discarded on the floor.  
  
Sherlock draws the curtains all the way as John closes the door. By the time John turns back around, Sherlock's already shirtless.  
  
"You said you wanted me to suck you off again sometime." Sherlock flashes John a grin. "Now seems like as good a time as any."  
  
It is a very tempting suggestion, but... John grins back hesitantly.  
  
Sherlock frowns. "What?"  
  
John blinks, the words sticking in his throat for some reason. It's not that he's unsure, it's just that he's never... John coughs. "I want you to fuck me."  
  
Sherlock's eyes widen. "Oh." He looks at John with amused interest. "And how long have you fantasised about this?"  
  
"A while," admits John, pulling off his T-shirt. "Only decided to go for it when we were half-way home though." He grins at Sherlock. "That is, if you're happy to..."  
  
Sherlock smiles. "Always, John."  
  
As John removes the rest of his clothes, Sherlock stalks across the room, opens John's bedside cabinet, and pulls out his bottle of lubricant.  
  
"Right." John pauses in taking off his underwear to run a hand through his hair. "You know where I keep my lube. Of course."  
  
"Of course," agrees Sherlock nonchalantly, reaching in and pulling out a packet of condoms too. "Do you want to prepare yourself, or should I?"  
  
"I..." John stares at the lube, weighing up the options. He tosses his underwear to one side and sits down on the bed. "I'll do it."  
  
"Very good." Sherlock presses the bottle in John's hand and John takes the opportunity to kiss Sherlock again, pulling Sherlock onto the bed beside him.  
  
There's no laughing this time. John reaches a hand into Sherlock's lap and feels Sherlock, hard, beneath his trousers. Jesus, John wants this. Sherlock's torso is pale and lithe and masculine, Sherlock kisses John, hot and messy, and John groans when Sherlock's fingers find their way down to cup John's erection.  
  
John breathes out heavily, trying not to break the kiss as Sherlock starts stroking. God, yes. The bottle of lube is hard in John's palm and this is out of his normal comfort zone and he wants nothing more than to be fucked until he's breathless. He rubs Sherlock through his trousers and is rewarded by the feel of Sherlock's hips rocking upwards.  
  
God.  
  
John breaks the kiss and takes a breath. "Right." He scoots back on the bed and looks at Sherlock. "Can you take your trousers off for me?" John licks his lips. "I want to see you."  
  
Sherlock smiles and does as he's told. He tosses his trousers and underwear off into a corner of the room, and climbs onto the end of the bed, taking himself in hand.  
  
John makes an appreciative noise. This is what he wanted. Sherlock's erection is growing harder as he starts to stroke, dark and heavy. And the thought that Sherlock's willing to fuck him with it nearly takes John's breath away.  
  
Licking his lips again, John settles himself at the head of the bed. He lies back against the pillows, spreads his legs and, Christ, John's never done this in front of anyone before. It's unnervingly intimate. Adrenaline thrills through him.  
  
Swallowing, John strokes his cock a couple of times, then pumps a load of lube onto his hand and tosses the bottle aside.  
  
Sherlock's eyelids lower, watching as John coats his fingers.  
  
John's heart is dancing in his chest. He bites his lip, reaches his hand down, and slides one slick finger up inside himself.  
  
Sherlock licks his lips and his voice catches in his throat when he says, "You do this often."  
  
Trust Sherlock to know. John feels his cheeks colour, and he's not quite sure if that's arousal or embarrassment. "Yes," he admits, then angles his wrist and pushes up deep enough that he pants with the feel of it.  
  
"God, John." Sherlock's running a hand up over the base of his own neck. John smirks and adds another finger.  
  
Oh. John's fingers are slick, sliding smoothly, and his cock is hard, even though he's not touching it. He lifts his hips a little, pressing up with his fingertips and feeling the muscles in his thighs clench. Distantly, he wonders how prepared he needs to be.  
  
Sherlock huffs and John looks up to see him staring intently at John's fingers. "Very good, John," Sherlock makes eye-contact, his cheeks flushed, "but your technique is a little lacking."  
  
"What..." starts John, too aroused to be offended, but Sherlock's already unfolded himself, crawled up the bed and curled his fingers around John's wrist.  
  
"Oh," gasps John.  
  
Sherlock looks at him. "Will you let me?" he asks.  
  
Long fingers flutter over John's pulse-point as John thrusts inside himself and, God, yes, yes.  
  
"Ok," replies John, voice strained.  
  
Sherlock finds the lube, slicks up his fingers, then reaches down to bat John's hand out of the way. John inhales as he slides his fingers out of himself, knuckles grazing past sensitive skin, but then Sherlock's already crowding between his legs, reaching his slick hand down and, oh oh...  
  
For a moment, John forgets to breathe.  
  
Sherlock slides in one finger, thrusts it a little, then adds a second, his other hand gripping John's thigh. Oh, and Sherlock's fingers are far longer than John's, reaching deep and slick and... Sherlock hooks his fingers without warning, pressing up, rubbing firmly, and John lets out a pathetic noise at the unexpected surge of sensation.  
  
It's, ah. John gasps for breath as Sherlock keeps rubbing. The feeling swells forcefully inside him. "Christ." John's back bows as his hips arch into the touch.  
  
The strokes of Sherlock's fingers are long and sure and accurate. John's heels scrabble against the bedclothes, pleasure flaring up and out.  
  
Then Sherlock adds another finger.  
  
"Oh, f..." John is slick and open, Sherlock's fingers so long, and John's harder than he's ever been when he's fingered himself before. His arousal spirals upwards, rolling warmth and clenching limbs. John screws his eyes shut and pants like he's dying.  
  
"Have you ever come from anal stimulation alone?" asks Sherlock. The hand on John's thigh tightens a little. "Do you want to give it a try?"  
  
Oh, God, yes. John is ridiculously close. His toes are curling and, yes, he wants to come like this, yes, yes, but...  
  
John takes a breath that stutters in his chest. "Sherlock," he gasps. "Ah. Not yet. Fuck." He bites his lip, head rocking back. "You said you'd fuck me."  
  
Sherlock's fingers still and John collapses back against the pillows, sucking in a ragged breath. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Sherlock's face is flushed dark pink, his chest heaving.  
  
"Fair enough," breathes Sherlock. He removes his fingers, fuck, fuck, and John's never felt quite as empty as this, messy and open and delightfully exposed as he watches Sherlock don a condom and slick himself up.  
  
Sherlock doesn't take long. Before John knows it, Sherlock's urging a pillow beneath John's hips, pushing up John's knees and... stopping.  
  
"John," says Sherlock.  
  
Throwing his head back against the pillow, John huffs a laugh. "What are you waiting for?" he asks, voice cracking.  
  
So Sherlock doesn't wait any further; he eases himself inside and he's thick and hard and hot, and John looks up to see where they're joined together. The sight is obscene. John's got a cock in his arse and it's the best thing he's done all year and why hasn't he ever tried this before?  
  
Above him, Sherlock takes a shuddery breath, and John looks up to see him smiling, mouth open. Then Sherlock thrusts, short, sharp, and pleasure flares up John's spine.  
  
"Jesus," breathes John. "Like that. Keep doing that."  
  
So Sherlock does. Short, quick thrusts, and his cock is so hard, warm pressure growing, building, building, through John's limbs and John can hardly breathe because of it.  
  
Oh, God. John reaches a hand between them to cup his balls, run over his cock, and it's too much, too quick, too sharp and he's moaning at the intensity of the feeling. He's dangerously close. John flings his hand back out to the side and clutches at the bedcovers beneath him instead, his knuckles straining.  
  
"God, Sherlock," gasps John. "I don't think I can... Are you close? I want to come with you. Let me... ah ah."  
  
"John," says Sherlock, a hint of awe in his voice, "I've not seen you this aroused before. You're red down to your chest." Then he angles his hips and keeps thrusting and John has to bite his lip and hold onto the bed for dear life.  
  
"As to your question," Sherlock swallows, "yes, I'm close. Are you happy for me to go faster?"  
  
John just moans. Faster, yes. Sherlock makes good on his word, fucking John hard, quick, the pleasure in John's limbs screwing up into a bright, white noise. The bed creaks and John turns his head, gasping out, hot and humid, into the pillow.  
  
Sherlock's breath stutters and stalls. John would look up at him but he's unable do anything but feel, pinned to the bed by the force of his arousal, hips desperately rocking, throat burning, thighs straining.  
  
"John," gasps Sherlock, voice urgent. "John, if you're going to come, you'll want to do it now."  
  
Fuck fuck fuck. That's all that John needs. He opens his eyes, curls a sweaty palm around his cock and the feel of it nearly blindsides him.  
  
"Jesus," groans Sherlock.  
  
Oh, God. John strokes himself as fast as he can, gasping gasping, desperation mounting, Sherlock thrusting, and for a beautiful moment there's nothing but the hot, visceral pleasure of it all. Then, suddenly, the gates open and John's lost to a bright, tumbling orgasm, punctuated with a broken cry and a jagged thrust of the hips as Sherlock comes too.  
  
It takes a while for John to retrieve his faculties. He gasps for breath as Sherlock slides out, overly sensitive, nerves jangling, and he closes his eyes as he feels Sherlock lean away to remove the condom and clean himself up.  
  
After a moment, Sherlock's back, and he's wiping John down too. John opens his eyes, bleary, and it's only then that he realises that Sherlock's just cleaned him up with his own T-shirt.  
  
"Sherlock," admonishes John, "that's my..." but he can't get the sentence out before the unimportance of the whole thing hits him and he's left giggling.  
  
"God," John takes a breath and knocks his head against Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock falls back to lie beside him. "Half the time I don't know what to make of you."  
  
Sherlock snorts a laugh. "I think most people would say the same."  
  
John shifts over and rolls onto his side. He looks at Sherlock. "Fancy some dinner?" he asks. "Brick Lane's not too far from here so we could go get a curry if you like." John thinks about it. "Although you probably already knew that."  
  
Sherlock's lips curl upwards. "Sounds perfect," he says. "I'll be able to practice my Bengali."  
  
John sniggers into the crook of his elbow. "You do _not_ speak Bengali," he says.  
  
"Well, not fluently," admits Sherlock and John rolls with laughter.  
  
When John's calmed down a little, they lapse into a pleasant silence. John stares up at the ceiling and his lips pull into a grin as he realises how nice it is to have Sherlock in London with him.  
  
Sherlock must be thinking something along the same lines because he says, "I'm going to move to London one day, you know."  
  
John turns to him, suddenly hopeful. "Are you?"  
  
"Oh yes." Sherlock waves a hand at the ceiling and stares at his fingers. "As soon as I possibly can. Cambridge is so small, whereas London... London is where everything happens." His fingers clench and unclench. "I'm going to move down here as soon as I finish my degree."  
  
Oh, thinks John, stomach dropping. That's...  
  
Sherlock lets his arm fall back to the bed. "Of course," he says, "you'll be off in the army by then."  
  
John smiles sadly. "You knew?"  
  
Sherlock throws him a glance. "Large rucksack in the corner of your room sitting on top of well-polished boots: you go on regular training camps. Photograph of your family on your bookshelf. Your father's in uniform: you want to follow in his footsteps. Obvious. And the way you stand: you joined the cadets way back when you were, what, twelve?" Sherlock lets out a huff that sounds more like a sigh. "You've been planning this for a long time."  
  
"I have," admits John.  
  
"You're dedicated," says Sherlock. "Nothing's going to stand in your way."  
  
John feels guilty admitting it, but it's true. He's been wanting to do this for so long; nothing's going to change his mind. Not even Sherlock. John grimaces. "No."  
  
Sherlock lets out a long breath. "But you're not going just yet," he concedes. "I'd like to spend some more time in London, to be honest, and I'm sure my brother's going to try to visit me again." He gives John a fond look. "Your studies take up far more time than mine, but I'm sure you wouldn't mind a few more visits to Cambridge as well."  
  
John smiles at him. "I'd like that."  
  
Sherlock smiles back. Taking the moment, John leans over to kiss him, but Sherlock suddenly lets out a pained gasp and cries, "Oh, hell. My leg!"  
  
John heaves himself up as Sherlock sits upright. "Sherlock," says John, concerned. "Are you ok? Did you hurt it when...?"  
  
But Sherlock's already jumped out of bed and dashed across the room. "Not my _leg_ , John," he shouts. "My leg!"  
  
"What...?" starts John  
  
"If I don't keep it cool, it'll get ruined!" Sherlock throws open the door and runs out into the hall.  
  
"Sherlock!" calls John. "Sherlock! You haven't got any clothes on!" Cursing, John hastily tugs on his dressing gown and runs out of the bedroom in pursuit.  
  
He enters the living room, panting, to find Sherlock in the kitchen, stark bollock naked, trying to shove a whole leg of pork into an already-full fridge.  
  
And John laughs so hard that his knees give way.


End file.
